


Vodka and Peppermint

by ThatRavenclawBitch



Series: 25 Days of Ficlets [4]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: 25 Days of Ficlets, F/M, Holidays, Woven Lace, holiday fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-04
Updated: 2018-12-29
Packaged: 2019-09-07 08:58:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16851094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThatRavenclawBitch/pseuds/ThatRavenclawBitch
Summary: From my 25 Days of Ficlets prompts on tumblr. Woven Lace – “Is that a candy cane in your pocket?”Winner of Best Lacey in The Espenson Awards 2019





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I felt bad for Weaver in my previous Curious Archer ficlet, so I gave him a Lacey. This is where Weaver went when he left Roni's.

He was watching her again.

She’d noticed him the moment she stepped on to the stage, her eyes drawn to him even in the darkness of the club, the lights shining in her eyes, the other faces in the bar all blending together to some faceless mass. Through it all, Detective Weaver stood out.

Perhaps it was his preternatural stillness. The other men in the club were hooting and hollering, throwing dollar bills up on the stage and otherwise trying to get her attention. Weaver didn’t try, he just commanded attention. He wasn’t up front, slobbering over her. He was just standing at the back near the bar, his one drink minimum clutched in his grip as his eye surveyed the place, always on the job even when off the clock.

She’d first met the good detective when he was investigating the disappearance of one of the other girls. Lacey had been the last person to see her before she left work the evening of her disappearance so she’d been counted a key witness, despite the fact she knew next to nothing about Sage. She was pretty sure that wasn’t even the girl’s real name. She’d always kept to herself, apparently only stripping to pay for med school. She had a weird tattoo on her wrist though and when Lacey had mentioned it, Weaver and his partner had latched on to the information.

Weaver had come back to talk to her a few more times, sometimes with his partner and sometimes all on his own. Each time she spoke to him was charged, something about him drawing her in despite her better judgment. Lacey had been around long enough to recognize a dangerous man when she saw one.

A couple weeks after her disappearance, Sage’s body had been found in a culvert and linked to several other murders in Hyperion Heights. Weaver’s case went from missing person to homicide.

Lacey figured she should probably be more worried about that. Sage had apparently been abducted from just outside the club and Lacey walked through that dark parking lot every night. She was a sex worker in a town with a serial killer, hardly a great position to find yourself in. But she couldn’t find it in her to be afraid. Part of it was because she apparently had her own personal bodyguard. For the past week, without fail, Weaver showed up just before close, stayed for her final set of the evening, and walked her to her car.

It was an earlier night than usual tonight with the holiday. Christmas Eve wasn’t quite as dead as you’d expect, there were always a few lonely hearts during the holiday season. But most people had somewhere better to be than a strip club on Christmas Eve.

Lacey didn’t though. Some of the other girls had kids, families. They’d been given the night off. Lacey didn’t have anyone to go home to, so she was here, gyrating her hips to the beat of the music while a sparse assortment of people looked on.

And Weaver.

It gave her a little thrill that he came to watch her. She arched her back, dragging her hands over her body before reaching behind to undo the tie to her top. She pulled it off, letting the red and white Santa inspired number drop to the floor, making eye contact with Weaver the whole time. She dropped to her hands and knees, crawling toward the edge of the stage, her eyes never leaving his.

He was so impassive. That was part of the thrill. He stood here and watched her take her clothes off every night without betraying one single emotion. His eyes were dark, his arms crossed against his chest, his mouth set in a firm line. She thought it would be glorious to one day get a rise out of him, to watch that façade break, to see him completely undone and at her mercy. It was a fantasy that had seen her through more than one lonely night recently.

Her set ended, a few whoops coming from the audience, and Lacey bent to retrieve her earnings for the night while the DJ called last call. She exchanged one last heavy look with Weaver before she sauntered off the stage to the back.

She was the last dancer of the night, the other girls having already slipped out so she was alone in the dressing room. She sat down in front of a vanity, taking off the seven inch acrylic heels that took her from pint sized to nearly tall, and massaging the balls of her feet. She took stock of her tips, rolling up the bills and stuffing them into her purse. Maybe she’d stop by the 24-hour market by her apartment on her way home and buy some eggnog or something then curl up on her sofa with White Christmas. A concession to the holiday season she’d all but ignored this year.

Weaver was waiting for her when she stepped out of the backdoor at 8:15 after trading her G-string for a pair of thick woolen tights and a cable knit sweater dress topped off by her trusty old pea coat she’d had since her one semester of college. She smiled at him, demure as possible, tossing her hair over her shoulder before tugging her beret on and setting off across the dimly lit lot to her old Hyundai. She knew he would follow.

Weaver looked good tonight, not that he didn’t always. There was something quietly powerful about him, despite the fact that he wasn’t much taller than Lacey herself. In her heeled boots he only had a few scant inches on her and she was downright tiny. But there was something about him that made you take notice, no matter his short stature. He was the type of man who never had to raise his voice to be listened to. Lacey envied that quality if she was entirely honest.

“Miss French,” he said by way of greeting as he fell into step beside her.

“Detective,” she returned. “Did you enjoy the show tonight?”

Weaver buried his chin in his scarf, his one concession to the cold weather. Otherwise he was wearing his usual uniform of jeans and a brown leather jacket.

“I don’t come here for the show,” he said simply.

Lacey turned, giving him a skeptical look.

“So you’ve come every night this week for the reasonably priced drinks?” she quipped.

Weaver shook his head. “I’ve come to make sure you’re safe,” he said. “If you hadn’t noticed, one of your co-workers was murdered. Aren’t you the least bit worried for yourself?”

Lacey shrugged, one tiny lift of her shoulder. “I think you worry enough for the both of us,” she said. “Besides, clearly Sage’s death had something to do with that tattoo on her wrist. I don’t have one, so I’m probably fine.”

Weaver narrowed his eyes at her, stopping suddenly.

“What are you talking about?”

Lacey just shrugged again. “When I mentioned the tattoo you and that good looking partner of yours lit up like the Fourth of July. Clearly it meant something.”

“You think Rogers is good looking?” he asked, latching on to the wrong part of Lacey’s explanation. Either that or he was distracting her from getting too close to his case.

“Objectively, yes,” she said. “But he’s not my type. Too green. I like a man with experience.”

She gave Weaver a sly little smile, turning to walk toward her car. The heated look in his eyes made her feel warm, no matter that it was freezing out, sleet leaving icy patches around the parking lot, particularly treacherous for Lacey’s choice of footwear.

She knew Weaver was following her so she put a little sway in her hips, giving him a show despite her thick winter clothes being a far cry from the skimpy outfit he’d seen her shake her ass in just twenty minutes ago. It was a mistake. She was just steps from her car when she slipped, the stiletto on her right boot skittering across a patch of ice. She would have gone down hard if not for the solid presence of Weaver, his hand shooting out to grab her by the elbow.

She stumbled against him, grabbing on to the front of his jacket and coming in to contact with something long and hard in the front of his pants. She’d suspected, of course, that Weaver liked her. He’d shown up six nights in a row to watch her take her clothes off and make sure she got home safe. But, all the same, it was thrilling to have confirmation of the fact.

“Hmm,” Lacey said, pressing herself against his chest, enjoying the warmth of him on this chilly night, the spicy scent of his cologne only slightly dampened by the beer and cigarette stench of the club. “Is that a candy cane in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?”

The edge of Weaver’s mouth turned up in a smirk as he caught Lacey by her upper arms, moving her back from him. She missed the feel of him almost immediately, the hard planes of his chest against her softer curves, the disconcerting way they seemed to fit together perfectly, like matching puzzle pieces.

Without taking his eyes off her, Weaver reached into the pocket of his jeans withdrawing a large plastic wrapped peppermint stick.

He held it up with a smug grin and she wasn’t sure if she wanted to smack it off his face or do something much more pleasurable.

“Rogers is a bit of a sucker for the holiday season,” he said, rolling the peppermint stick between his dexterous fingers. “Insisted on giving me a gift.”

“Oh,” Lacey said, caught off guard. She honestly hadn’t expected an actual candy cane.

“I must say, I’m a little insulted,” Weaver continued, slipping the offending candy into the pocket of his leather jacket instead.

He leaned forward, his mouth brushing the shell of her ear, his breath tickling across her neck and sending shivers down her spine, goose bumps erupting on her skin.

“If it was _that_ ,” he whispered. “Trust me, you’d know.”

Lacey’s breath hitched in her chest and she was certain Weaver knew exactly the effect he was having on her as he pulled away, that infuriating smirk still on his face.

He motioned to her car at her back, giving her a little nod as he did every night.

“Merry Christmas, Miss French,” he said before turning to head to his own car.

Lacey watched him walk away, his confident swagger so attractive it should be illegal. His jeans hugged his ass just right and she felt something heavy and hot settle between her thighs. She shook her head, making a split second decision.

“Hey, Weaver,” she called to his back and he turned around, eyeing her over his scarf, his hands jammed in to the pockets of his jacket.

“Yes?” he asked, cool as ever.

“Got any big plans tonight?” she asked.

Weaver shrugged. “None to speak of,” he said. She thought as much. He didn’t wear a wedding ring and if he’d had a wife she’d probably have something to say about him spending every evening walking a stripper to her car.

“Fancy coming over to my place for a Christmas drink, then?” she asked.

It was quite the presumption. He’d not actually shown any interest in her beyond making sure she wasn’t murdered. And Lacey wasn’t entirely sure he was trustworthy enough to allow in to her home. He was dangerous, she knew. Unfortunately, she’d always found herself attracted to dangerous men and Weaver was no exception.

Weaver deliberated for a moment, glancing askance at his own car before taking a few steps back toward Lacey.

“It’s the least I can do,” she continued. “You’ve been keeping me safe from serial killers and icy parking lots after all.”

Weaver huffed a laugh, more a grunt than an actual sound of amusement.

“Alright,” he agreed. “In the spirit of Christmas and all that, I’ll take you up on your hospitality.”

Lacey rolled her eyes. “I’ve got shitty vodka and even shittier wine. Don’t get too excited.”

“Lucky for you nothing improves shitty vodka quite like an oversized peppermint stick,” he said, so close suddenly that she could feel the warmth of him at her front and his cool breath against her cheek. “I’ll drive.”

He offered Lacey his arm and she took it without a word, letting him lead her across the lot to his car.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “But I’ve been such a good girl” and “Santa doesn’t have to know about this”

Lacey’s apartment was a mess.

She hadn’t anticipated visitors. It wasn’t like she ever had them, especially not on Christmas Eve. Everyone had something better to do, friends and family to spend the holiday season with, everyone except her. Well, and Weaver she supposed.

She hadn’t bothered to decorate this year. She usually got herself a small tree and spent an enjoyable evening wrapping it in twinkle lights and tinsel while she sipped eggnog and watched Christmas movies. This year was different though. Despite not being close to Sage, her murder weighed heavily on Lacey’s mind. It was a strange thing to be the last person to see someone alive, for a young woman to be snuffed out so easily leaving little behind. It made her face her own mortality, something she tried to do with dark humor. But she hadn’t felt festive this year. She just wanted to sit this Christmas out.

But now she was wishing she had put up her customary tree and twinkle lights. It would at least make her apartment look homier, less like the receptacle for junk it had become the past few weeks.

She hadn’t thought this through, not at all. She’d let her libido cloud her judgment and brought a complete stranger with a sexy accent and a nice arse back to her mess of an apartment. All he knew about her right now was what she looked like naked. If she opened the door to her apartment, he would learn so much more. She wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

But now she was standing on the doorstep of her apartment, Weaver at her back, as she fumbled with her keys, trying to get the door open.

“Um,” she paused once the door was unlocked, her hand on the doorknob. “Could you give me like thirty-five seconds?”

Weaver raised an eyebrow at her. “Exactly thirty-five seconds?”

“Yep,” Lacey said with a nod. “Just stay exactly where you are and let me try to hide the fact that I live like nineteen year old frat boy.”

Weaver chuckled, shaking his head. “I don’t care if your apartment isn’t clean,” he said. “I promise I won’t judge.”

“Yeah, well,” she gave a helpless little shrug. “I’ll judge myself.”

She darted inside, shutting the door behind her and made a mad dash to the kitchen. She swept the leftover takeout containers littering the countertops into the bin with one arm, then grabbed a fairly clean dishtowel to drape over the handful of dirty dishes in the sink. The living room was next and she only just managed to stack up the tabloid magazines on her end table, toss a throw blanket over the unfolded laundry in her armchair, and pick up that morning’s coffee cup from the coffee table before the door opened and Weaver sauntered in.

“Decent?” he asked.

Lacey whirled around, bracing her hands on her hips.

“As I ever am,” she said with a smirk. Her eyes darted to the hallway down which her bedroom lay. She hadn’t had a chance to pick up in there and she wasn’t entirely sure how she’d left it before work. It probably looked like a lingerie bomb had exploded in there. Then she shook her head. Why was she thinking about Weaver seeing her bedroom? They were having a drink, that was all.

Yeah, right.

She shrugged off her coat, laying it on top of the throw blanket, an extra barrier between Weaver and the assortment of embarrassingly cloying Hello Kitty pajama sets on the armchair.

“How about that drink,” she said, crossing the living room back to her tiny kitchen and rooting around in the cabinet for two matching glasses. Weaver unwound his scarf from around his neck, walking through the living room, taking it in. He stopped for a moment at the bookshelf next to the television, perusing the titles there.

It was strange having a man in her apartment. It certainly didn’t happen often and not in a very long time. For some reason Lacey was nervous, and she didn’t like being nervous. It happened as rarely as having a man in her apartment.

As luck would have it, Lacey had two clean glasses in her cabinet and she pulled them down, spinning to place them on the counter. Weaver had followed her and he was close behind her in the tiny kitchen. She gasped, taking a step back at his unexpected presence.

“Are you alright?” he asked, his lips quirked into something that might have been related to a smile.

“Fine,” she said with a nod. She skirted around him to the freezer, pulling out the bottle of cheap vodka she’d promised and pouring a bit in each glass. She handed one to Weaver, taking a sip of her own to give herself a little liquid courage. It was nice and cold, and that’s about all she could say for the drink.

“Sorry I don’t have anything better,” she said, leading the way out of the kitchen and back to the living room. She flopped down on her slipcovered sofa and Weaver followed suit. “I know you’re more of a whisky man.”

Weaver raised an eyebrow and she noticed he’d avoided taking a drink.

“And how do you know that?” he asked, turning the glass absentmindedly between his palms.

“One drink minimum,” she said by way of answer. “I’ve made note of what I see you with.”

She wasn’t entirely sure why she was making small talk. They both knew the moment she invited him over for a drink how this evening would end. You didn’t invite a guy you met at a strip club back to your place for anything else. But it felt like there needed to be something more here. This wasn’t just any customer from the club. This was Weaver and she _liked_ Weaver.

He was funny and irreverent and had turned an absolutely awful experience into something that didn’t feel quite so dismal. He flirted with her and walked her to her car on cold, dark evenings. He was her guardian angel in a weird sort of way. She definitely wanted to fuck him. She’d thought about it constantly pretty much from the day they’d met. He’d been wearing blue that day, the top few buttons of his shirt undone giving a glimpse of a white V-neck underneath and a hint of a silver chain necklace. He wore rings too, though not a wedding ring, a thick silver link bracelet on his wrist. He wore more jewelry than she did and she figured every single piece had a story, some hidden meaning. She wanted to know his stories. She wanted to know him.

There was nothing for it then. She pushed her nervousness down, forging on recklessly. She was going to fuck Weaver tonight, but he was going to give her something of himself in the transaction.

“So,” she said, reaching her hand into the pocket of his jacket, her hand brushing across his chest, and pulling out the peppermint stick. “Why did Rogers give you this?”

“It’s Christmas,” he said with a shrug, taking a sip of his drink and wincing. “This really is pish.”

Lacey ignored him, pressing on with her line of questioning.

“Bit impersonal though, isn’t it?” she asked, turning the peppermint stick between her fingers.

Weaver took another more reluctant sip of the vodka, wiping his thumb across his lip to catch a few droplets.

“He doesn’t know me that well.”

“You’re partners. Doesn’t that mean you’re supposed to like be prepared to take a bullet for each other?”

“It means we work together,” he said with a sigh. “Rogers is a good detective, competent, he doesn’t need to know my life story for that.”

“You’re a tough nut to crack, aren’t you, Detective?”

“Oh I’m a big softie once you get to know me,” he said, giving her a wink.

Lacey snorted. “And how many people can you count there?”

Weaver shrugged.

“My schedule and lifestyle don’t allow for a lot of friends. Hazard of the job.”

“Oh well that’s not a red flag or anything,” Lacey quipped.

Weaver looked down at the drink in his hands, the playful banter coming to a grinding halt and Lacey felt terrible almost immediately. She hadn’t meant to imply anything.

“Did you get Rogers a gift?” she asked. “Hair pomade? Beard trimming kit? Giant Hershey kiss if that’s more your speed?”

Weaver huffed a laugh, his eyes meeting hers again and she counted it a win.

“I’m afraid I’m seriously behind on my Christmas shopping,” he said.

“You mean you didn’t get me anything?” she asked with an exaggerated pout. “But I’ve been such a good girl this year.”

Weaver raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Oh I hope not.”

Lacey felt a pleasurable shiver go through her at his tone of voice, dark and full of promise. She took another sip of her drink to cover her grin.

“And how about you?” he asked. “Why is a pretty young thing like you alone on Christmas Eve?”

She supposed she should have expected that, tit for tat. If she was going to be invasive, he could be as well.

Lacey shrugged. “No family to speak of, not anywhere close by anyways. Perks of being an immigrant, you know?”

“I do,” he agreed. “What about friends?”

Lacey sighed, shrugging again. “My best friend Ruby is visiting her grandmother for the holidays. My friend Sabine is a caterer so she’s busy with Christmas parties and dinners at this time of year. Merida’s got this big family, parents, three brothers, the whole thing. Jacinda has a kid. Everybody has something, you know?”

“And what do you have?” Weaver asked, his eyes intense.

Lacey bit her lip. It was obvious, wasn’t it? She had absolutely nothing. A barebones apartment and a job that paid the bills for as long as she was young and pretty enough to do it.

She plastered on her biggest smile, relying on her trademark bravado.

“I’ve got shitty vodka,” she said, waggling her glass at him.

Weaver raised his own glass, clinking it against Lacey’s and they both took a drink, lapsing into silence for a moment.

“Alright,” Lacey said leaning forward slightly. Weaver’s eyes dropped to her lips and she darted her tongue out to wet them enjoying the way his eyes traced the motion. “Tell me something about yourself that Rogers doesn’t know.”

“I don’t like peas,” he said immediately, his eyes skittering away from her to stare across the living room at the framed Van Gogh print from Target hung on the wall.

Lacey rolled her eyes. “That doesn’t count. I mean something good. Something that would shock him.”

Weaver glanced over at her, an eyebrow raised.

“Why should I tell you my secrets?” he asked, his tone light despite the words.

“Because,” Lacey said, kneeling up on the couch so that her breasts were at his eye level. “You know all of mine. You’ve seen them every night this week.”

Weaver snorted, a smirk crossing his face.

“Not all of them,” he said, inclining his head. “You kept that tiny underwear on, didn’t you?”

“Is that why you’re here, Detective?” she asked, cocking her head to the side. “To investigate what’s under my G-string? I expect you’ll be very thorough.”

“Oh I’m always thorough,” he said with a smirk. Now things were getting interesting.

Lacey set her glass down on the side table, stretching across Weaver to reach and he followed suit. Then she straddled his lap, her free hand resting on his shoulder while the other still fiddled with the peppermint stick. Her sweater dress rode up her thighs, and Weaver’s hands came to rest on them, big and warm through the fabric of her tights.

“And what tools would you use in your investigation?” she asked innocently, looking at him with wide eyes.

He leaned forward, drawing his tongue up the length of her throat until he reached her earlobe and tugged on it gently with his teeth. Lacey felt a rush of heat down her spine, settling heavy between her thighs. They hadn’t even kissed and this was already the best sex she’d had in years.

“Everything,” he whispered, his accent rough.

Lacey’s eyes fluttered closed, her free hand gripping the short hair at the nape of his neck, pulling gently. She tipped his head back, leaning in to whisper against his own ear.

“If you want everything,” she whispered. “You have to tell me a secret.”

Weaver’s hands tightened on her thighs involuntarily before he released her, leaning back against the sofa to stare up at her.

“My favorite color is blue,” he deadpanned. Lacey rolled her eyes.

“Alright,” she said, sliding off his lap and back down on the sofa next to him, one long leg still slung across him. “If you don’t want to tell me a secret, will you at least answer a question?”

“That depends on the question,” he said.

“Why are you so worried about me?” she asked, voicing the question that had bothered her all week. What was so special about her? Why was she the one he chose to exercise his protective instincts on? Was it just attraction or was there something more? Was she in danger?

Weaver brought his glass to his lips, grimacing around another sip of the stuff.

“I like you,” he said finally. “If some madman hacked you to bits and I could have prevented it, I’d lose sleep over it. And I get little enough sleep as it is.”

“Oh I see,” Lacey said sarcastically. “Can’t have my butchered corpse on your conscience.”

“Something like that,” Weaver said darkly. Lacey wondered how many butchered corpses he did carry around on his conscience and if that was the reason for his lack of sleep. Perhaps she shouldn’t make light of it.

She cast around for a change in subject, something to bring them back to the delicious verbal foreplay they’d been having a moment ago. The candy cane was still in her hand and she held it forward.

“We’ve been sitting here drinking this swill straight when you said peppermint would make the vodka better,” she pointed out. “And it is Christmas after all. We should try to be at least a little festive.”

She pulled at one end of the plastic wrap clinging to the peppermint stick, using her teeth to cut into it when her fingers failed. She peeled the plastic back slowly as if she was back on the stage and removing her stockings one leg at a time. She rolled the plastic all the way down to the bottom before taking the tip of the candy cane in her mouth, her tongue swirling around it before releasing it with a pop. Weaver’s breath had hitched in his chest, his eyes black as he watched her.

“That’s an interesting way to eat a candy cane,” he said.

Lacey just smirked handing it to him before taking a sip of her drink. The vodka was sharp after the sweetness of the peppermint, but it did add something, made her shitty taste in liquor slightly more palatable.

“It works,” she said, her voice slightly husky. “Go on.”

Weaver wet his lips before popping the candy cane unceremoniously into his mouth, giving it a perfunctory lick. Then he took a long swig of the vodka, nearly finishing the glass.

“That does improve things,” he said, passing it back to her.

Lacey made even more of a show this time, taking the candy cane between her lips and letting them slide down it until half the thing was in her mouth, hollowing her cheeks and sucking hard. Then she drew back slowly, the sugar glistening on her lips, staining them red.

“Delicious,” she moaned as she came up for air.

Weaver’s pupils were blown wide as he watched her, his eyes trained on her mouth. She could feel him hardening beneath where her leg was slung across his lap. No more teasing, she decided.

Weaver took the candy cane, biting a chunk of the tip and chewing, the peppermint crunching between his teeth. He finished off the last of his vodka, setting the glass back on the side table before offering her the candy cane once more.

“Keep it,” she said, pushing it back in to his hand. “Show me what you like.”

She dropped to her knees in front of the sofa, moving to kneel between Weaver’s parted thighs. She ran her hands up and down the rough denim, feeling his muscles tense under her touch.

“I thought you were a good girl this year,” Weaver said, the peppermint stick still clutched in his hand, his eyes dark as midnight as he stared down at Lacey.

She unbuckled his belt, drawing the zip on his fly down with measured movements. She could feel him, hard in his jeans and he hissed as the zipper dragged over the rigid line of his cock. Definitely more impressive than the peppermint stick.

“Well,” she smirked as she pulled him free of his boxers, hot and heavy in her hand and just as impressive as he’d indicated. “Santa doesn’t have to know about this.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just how good were you this year?”

Christmas in Hyperion Heights wasn’t like back home. For one, it was summer back in Melbourne, no snow or ice to be found. Lacey had spent her childhood Christmases at the beach with her mother and grandmother, lying out on the hot sand, the sun making her skin freckle and the sound of the crashing waves lulling her in to a post meal nap. Once her mum and Nan were gone she’d still gone down to the beach, sometimes with friends and sometimes alone but for a bottle of something she’d been able to nick from her dad.

Christmas at home was sun and surf and a hangover by mid afternoon. Hyperion Heights was ice, sometimes snow but not the pretty stuff just greying slush congealing in the gutters and making the streets even more treacherous, and well probably still a hangover by mid afternoon.

She’d always liked the idea of an American Christmas though, the kind you saw in the movies. Some secret part of her wanted to come home to a big brick house in the suburbs with a wreath on the front door and snow covering the lawn. She wanted Bing Crosby and Nat King Cole. She wanted Meet Me in St. Louis and White Christmas. She wanted a family crowded around a turkey or a ham or whatever people ate at the holidays like a fucking Norman Rockwell painting.

So far her American Christmases had been nothing like that. She spent them alone, dreaming about those perfect holiday movies with their towering trees and love found in department stores on Christmas Eve. Maybe those weren’t American Christmases after all. Perhaps it was all just a pretty lie and everyone in this country was just as lonely as she’d been back home. As lonely as she still was here.

But she wasn’t alone this Christmas.

Weaver’s breathing had hitched, coming a little faster than it had been, but he gave no other outward sign of emotion. He maintained that stoic façade, slightly flirtatious but closed off. His face was unreadable, even with his cock held loosely in her grip. She wanted to see him lose it, come completely undone for no other reason than her. She wanted one moment from him that was real and if she had to suck that moment out of his cock, so be it.

“So, Detective,” she said, letting her breath ghost over Weaver’s erection. “Now that we’ve established I was a saint, just how good were _you_ this year?”

Weaver raised an eyebrow.

“I’ve never been good one single day in my life,” he growled out. “And I resent the implication.”

“I don’t believe that,” Lacey scoffed, trailing a finger down the length of his cock. His eyes fluttered shut, his jaw tense, but he gave no other indication that she was driving him mad. “You’re a protector of young women, aren’t you?”

“And here you are with my cock in your hand,” he said, his voice little more than a hiss. “Seems I get something out of it after all.”

“Don’t be an ass,” she said, giving him a gentle tug. “You like me. You already admitted it.”

“What’s not to like?” he said, inclining his head to where she was stroking him. “You’re not half bad at that.”

Lacey gave him a playful glare, pushing up on her knees so she could take the tip of him in her mouth. She swirled her tongue around the head, tasting the salty essence of him, just a tease, before she pulled back. His eyes were closed, his head leaning back against the sofa and Lacey smiled to herself. Now she just needed to make him make some noise.

With that in mind she went back to work, taking more of him this time, as much as she could, until the tip of his cock was butting against the back of her throat, gagging her slightly. She was out of practice. It had been a while since she’d done this for anyone, as she hadn’t had a boyfriend in longer than she could remember and despite outward appearances, she wasn’t much for one-night stands.

Weaver let out a grunt, his hand coming to tangle in her hair and Lacey counted it a win. He wasn’t made of stone and she’d make him come apart, right here and now in her tiny living room on her second hand sofa.

She pulled back, his cock slipping from between her lips with a wet pop. Weaver’s eyes flew open, his hand dropping form her hair as she tugged on the hem of her dress, pulling it up and over her head and casting it to the side.

She was left in her bra and tights, nothing compared to how naked Weaver had seen her just earlier that night, but his eyes were raking over her hungrily anyway.

“You’re supposed to be showing me what you want,” she said, pumping him with her hand as she nodded her head at the candy cane clutched forgotten in his grip.

Weaver tossed the candy cane down on the sofa.

“What I want,” he said, “is you.”

Before Lacey knew what was happening he’d grabbed her by the arms, nearly lifting her bodily from the floor and up on to his lap. He kissed her, hard, one hand pushing in to her hair and the other holding her about her waist, his cock pressing hard in to her thigh. She melted in to the kiss, in spite of herself. She should have known Weaver would never let her keep the upper hand for long.

His lips were dry but soft and she could taste the vodka and peppermint on his tongue as his lips pushed hers apart and his tongue gently stroked against her own.

He pulled back after a moment and Lacey took the opportunity to gasp for breath. Weaver had a very self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“Lay back,” he said, a gentle command, and Lacey was helpless but to obey, leaning back against the arm of the sofa.

He trailed his hands over her chest, rough callouses against sensitive skin, and she shivered. Her apartment was cool, never quite warm despite the heater going. By contrast, Weaver’s large hands were warm, tickling over the cups of her bra and down across her belly.

“I didn’t get to finish with you,” she protested, reaching for him. He took her wrist in his hand pulling it up to grip the arm of the sofa behind her head.

“It’s Christmas,” he growled against her ear. “Haven’t you heard that it’s better to give than receive?”

“Yes,” she whispered back. “That’s why I was being so very generous.”

“And as much as I appreciate that,” he said, grinding his hips against her, the hard line of his cock brushing against her core and making her gasp. “I’m impatient to unwrap my gift.”

Lacey scoffed. “I thought you said you were a bad boy this year,” she said. “What makes you think you deserve a gift at all?”

Weaver smirked. “I think you’re gonna like what I have in mind.”

His hands continued their exploration down over her hips and legs, scratching over the fabric of her tights, finally getting to her feet. He sat back and tugged one of her heeled boots off, tossing it over his shoulder where it landed on her armchair. He followed with the other that hit the wall with a clatter leaving a scuffmark on the cream colored paint. Then he grabbed the waistband of her tights, yanking them down unceremoniously. Lacey lifted her hips, letting him wriggle them down and off completely.

“Didn’t want me to give you a little tease first, Detective?” she asked rubbing her bare foot against the side of his hip.

Weaver’s eyes traced down the length of her body, from her black lace bra to the thin sheer thong she was still wearing.

“Oh I’ve been teased enough by you lately, thanks.”

Lacey giggled but Weaver chose that moment to reach up between her thighs, stroking her through the fabric of her panties, and her laugh turned to a moan.

It wasn’t fair. Here she was practically naked while he was still dressed but for his unbuttoned jeans. That’s how it always was. She was naked, shaking her ass for a buck while he stood coolly in the back of the club. But no more. She wanted to feel him, to taste him, to see him just as vulnerable as she always was.

She grabbed for him, shoving the leather jacket from his shoulders and he wrestled it off, tossing it away across the living room. Lacey set to work on his buttons, getting his blue shirt unbuttoned before slipping her hands underneath the white V-neck he wore underneath.

His skin was hot, his muscles firm beneath her fingers. She liked the feel of him. She thought she might like the sight of him even more.

With a little fumbling his shirt had joined his jacket across the room and she peeled his t-shirt from him with delight, pulling it over his head and dropping it next to the sofa.

Her eyes traced over him hungrily, the tanned skin of his chest, the sparse hair, thickening below his belly button and trailing down to his absolutely delicious cock. He was thin but strong, his belly a little softer than the rest of him. She thought he’d probably been too thin when he was younger, and a little middle aged spread suited him just fine. He wore a thin silver chain around his neck and she wondered if it had a story like she imagined his various rings and bracelets did.

“Are you done?” he asked, raising an eyebrow as he just sat there between her parted thighs.

Lacey grinned at him. “You’ve looked your fill at me,” she said. “I’m just returning the favor.”

“But you’re much prettier to look at,” he said, leaning forward to brush his lips against hers and Lacey wrapped her arms around his neck.

“Oh I don’t know,” she said. “You look pretty good to me.”

She rubbed her hands down over his chest, plucking at his nipples and he hissed, kissing her harder as he grabbed her hands and pulled them back up over her head. He didn’t want her to touch him, she realized. When she tried, whether it was his hair, his chest, his cock, he found a way to direct her elsewhere. It bothered her. But Weaver took that opportunity to trail his hand back down between her parted legs, touching her lightly, just enough to tease.

She pushed her hips into his hand almost involuntarily and Weaver chuckled.

“Eager are we?” he murmured against her lips.

Lacey bit his bottom lip in retaliation, pulling at it with her teeth before letting go.

“Get on with it then,” she hissed. “I don’t have all night.”

He chuckled again, a low, throaty sound that went straight to her core, wetness pooling between her thighs and soaking her underwear.

Weaver slipped his hand beneath the waistband of her panties, playing over her mons. She waxed for work and he let out a low groan at the feel of her.

He slipped a finger inside her, easy work with how wet she already was.

“Do you know how long I’ve wanted to touch you?” he asked, his accent thick in her ear.

“Most men who watch me dance do,” she said, the bravado of her words practically negated by the hitch in her voice when he stroked her just right.

Weaver made a little noise of protest. “You’re not that good of a dancer, sweetheart.”

Lacey shoved his shoulder. “I’d like to see you do better.”

“You think I can’t wiggle my arse?” he said with a chuckle. “I’ve got a degree in arse wiggling.”

From what she could tell through the nicely snug jeans he wore, she didn’t discount that.

“Ahh,” Lacey gasped as his thumb found her clit, turning her knees to jelly. “I’d like to see that.”

“Maybe later,” he said, kissing her temple. “Right now I want to fuck you.”

He added another finger, turning them so they were pressing against her upper wall, stroking up against her while his thumb worked against her clit. She gripped on to the sofa arm, her hips bucking against Weaver’s hand. He definitely knew what he was doing, just how to touch her to make her fall apart in his arms. Her thighs pressed against his sides, holding him tightly between her legs as she shuddered and gasped, her mind blissfully empty but for the sensations Weaver was causing.

She jerked, crying out as she broke, her orgasm rolling through her.

“Oh fuck!” she cried, and Weaver kissed her again, stroking her through her high until her breathing had evened. Then he pulled his fingers from her, popping them into his mouth and sucking her juices from them. 

"Now that's better than peppermint," he said, his voice full of dark promise. 

He bent his head to kiss her neck, his lips trailing over the sensitive skin. He bit down gently at the place where her neck met her shoulder and Lacey shuddered beneath him.

“I must have been really good this year,” she said, chancing carding her fingers through his shaggy hair.

Weaver hummed against her skin, kissing down her chest, his nose brushing across her breastbone as he buried his face in her cleavage. He reached under her back and with a nimble flick of his fingers he’d unhooked her bra. Lacey pulled it off, throwing it away to join the ever growing pile of discarded clothing. Weaver’s lips closed around her nipple, his tongue lapping at the little bud and his hand came up to massage the other.

“Oh yeah,” she said, her hands finding their way in to his hair once more. “Really good.”

He kissed down across her belly, biting and sucking, leaving little pink patches across her pale skin. She was glad she didn’t have to work tomorrow giving any love bites from this encounter time to heal. She didn’t want to tell him to hold back. She wanted everything from him.

He reached the waistband of her panties and he tugged them down, tossing them over his shoulder where they landed on a table lamp. Then he sat back, spreading her thighs with his hands and looking his fill.

“So this is what I’ve been missing out on when you shake your arse on stage,” he said with a lascivious grin. He brushed his thumb against her slit, still sensitive from his earlier attentions, and Lacey shivered.

He leaned down brushing a kiss against her cunt, inhaling her scent.

“Delicious,” he said, looking up at her with almost feral eyes. He bent his head back to her and she couldn’t bear it. If he wouldn’t let her do it for him, she wouldn’t let him go down on her.

“No,” she exclaimed and Weaver sat up immediately, his hands going to his own lap, suddenly all respectful distance despite Lacey being spread out before him like a buffet. “Just fuck me already.”

A relieved smile broke across his face.

“Condom?” he asked and Lacey pointed to her purse lying on the coffee table. Weaver leaned over and grabbed it, rifling through it for a moment before surfacing with a foil wrapped package and he ripped it open with his teeth. 

His cock was still bobbing around proudly over the waistband of his boxers and he shoved his jeans and underwear down quickly, kicking them off across the room with his shoes and socks. He kneeled up between her parted thighs, rolling on the condom before pulling her hips closer so her head dropped from its place on the arm of the sofa and she was laying flat against the slip-covered fabric.

He gave himself a few strokes before lining them up, blanketing her with his body as he slowly pushed in to her.

“Oh shit!” Lacey gasped at the feel of his hard cock stretching her. She pulled her knees up, her right one pinned to the back of the sofa by Weaver’s body, letting him push deeper. Her eyes rolled back, her hands gripping her own knees as he started to thrust against her.

“Fuck,” he groaned, burying his face against her neck, biting and sucking at her skin. He felt amazing, thick and hard within her, but Lacey felt too passive. He was doing all the work. In her fantasies, she’d been above him, watching him come apart beneath her. As good as it felt right now, she wanted him that way.

“Sit up,” she said, pushing at his shoulders.

“What?” he stuttered out, pulling back to look at her.

“I wanna be on top,” she said.

“God you’re bossy,” Weaver said, but he obliged her, pulling out of her with a squelching sound and leaning back against the opposite arm of the couch. Lacey knelt over him, straddling his hips as she took him in hand to line them up again. She swiped his cock through her folds, teasing them both, before taking all of him with one downward thrust of her hips. She gasped at the new angle, gripping on to Weaver’s shoulders, her nails biting in to his skin.

Weaver grabbed her hips, urging her to move, but Lacey was in control of things now, setting the pace. She pulled up on her knees, achingly slowly until his cock slipped from her completely and Weaver threw his head back, the tendons in his neck standing out in stark relief as he gripped on to her, hard enough to bruise.

“Please,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper.

“Please what?” she asked innocently. Weaver’s eyes flew open, his expression dark. She got the impression he hadn’t even realized what he’d said. “Please what, detective?”

His jaw was tight and he swallowed convulsively, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the motion. Lacey leaned down, licking a stripe up his neck, tasting the salty sweat of his skin.

“What do you need?” she whispered against his ear. “You can tell me.”

“Just fucking ride me already,” Weaver growled.

“Can I get another please?” she asked, sitting back up. She arched her back, raising her hands to comb her fingers through her long hair, giving him a show. His eyes fixated on her breasts, and she brought her hands down over them, squeezing and kneading her own flesh.

“I’m not gonna beg you,” he rasped out, his voice hoarse. “You want it just as bad as I do and somehow I doubt you ever deny yourself what you want.”

He was right, of course. She wanted him to beg for her, she wanted to see him ragged and gasping for her. But she wasn’t about to stop things.

“Fuck you,” she spat.

“Oh you’re doing a fine job of that already.”

He was such a smug asshole. She wanted to wipe the smirk from his face. She wanted to break through and force him to give her something real.

She sank down on him again, setting a punishing pace, bracing her hands against his chest and riding him hard. She found the perfect angle, his cock filling her just right, and she leaned back, undulating her hips against him.

Weaver was panting beneath her, his hands coming up to cup her breasts, his mouth hanging open and eyes wide. Lacey wasn’t going to last much longer but she needed to see him come undone before she lost herself in her own pleasure.

Weaver reached for her, pulling her down to him for a messy kiss, his mouth hot and hungry. At this angle he was brushing against her clit with every stroke and Lacey could see stars bursting behind her eyelids as she shut her eyes, trying to stave off her orgasm. She reached up, tweaking his nipples between her fingers and Weaver finally lost it.

He tossed his head back against the arm of the sofa, a feral sound ripped from his throat as he pulsed within her. His hands scrabbled for her, holding her tight as she milked him for all he was worth. Satisfied, Lacey let herself go, coming hard before collapsing on Weaver’s chest.

They lay there for a long moment, Weaver's right hand petting her hair, smoothing her curls over her naked back. His hand was shaking ever so slightly and Lacey smiled against his sweat slicked chest. 

“Wow,” she said finally. “That was…”

"Not a bad way to spend a Christmas Eve?" he supplied. Lacey snorted. She'd all but forgotten about the holiday.

"Sure beats drinking alone," she said. 

"I can't disagree with that."

"Feel free to come back on New Year's," she said playfully, pushing herself up off his chest to gaze down at him. He looked relaxed, a small smile playing around his lips. She'd never seen him quite like this, the shadows momentarily gone from his eyes, and she liked it. "Easter perhaps. Arbor Day? We'll make it a holiday thing."

"I work most holidays," he said, his eyes glancing off across the living room. 

"Yeah," Lacey said with a shrug. "So do I. It was just a joke." 

Weaver nodded, sitting up and taking Lacey with him. 

"Look I told you earlier my life doesn't lend itself to a lot of free time or friends."

"Yeah," Lacey said warily, wondering where he was going with this. 

"So I don't really date," he continued and Lacey rolled her eyes.

"Oh God do you think I'm gonna get clingy or something?" she asked, sitting back against the arm of the sofa. "We fucked. It's fine." 

"Okay, good," he said with another nod. "Then we're on the same page." 

"Yeah," Lacey said with a shrug. She reached down to the floor next to the sofa where Weaver's t-shirt had fallen and pulled it on over her head. Despite the fact he'd seen her naked every day this week she suddenly felt too exposed. 

"I'm gonna get cleaned up," he said and Lacey pointed him in the direction of the bathroom. He grabbed his jeans from the floor and disappeared down the hall. A moment later she could hear the faucet running. 

Lacey swiped a hand over her face, letting out a sigh. This was stupid. She had made a terrible mistake. She liked Weaver too much and despite the fact that he obviously liked her as well, he was also pretty clear they had no future. Lacey didn't like one night stands. She didn't want a fuck buddy who came over when he wasn't too busy. She wasn't sure what she wanted, but she was sure it was more than Weaver could offer. 

She grabbed the remote off the coffee table, flipping on the television to drown out her thoughts. It's A Wonderful Life was on, George Bailey berating Uncle Billy for losing the $8,000, and Lacey sat back to watch, downing the last of the vodka in her glass on the side table. A moment later Weaver emerged from the bathroom accompanied by the scent of her rose hand soap, the ends of the long hair framing his face wet and dripping water on his bare chest. 

He stood there a little awkwardly, fiddling with the ring on his right hand. 

"You can stay if you want," she said with a shrug. "I've got nothing going tonight." 

"I'll stay," he said then. "If you don't mind."

Lacey shrugged again, scooting over to clear more space for him on the sofa. He sat down next to her, glancing down at the watch on his wrist. 

"It's midnight," he said, surprise coloring his voice. "Merry Christmas I suppose."

Lacey bit her lip, focusing on George Bailey standing out on that bridge in the snow. 

"Merry Christmas." 

She wasn't alone this Christmas. She couldn't decide if that was better or worse. 


	4. Chapter 4

Lacey snored.

He hadn’t expected it and at the first little snuffle he’d thought she was crying. But then the snores started to increase in volume, roughly mimicking the sound of a chainsaw cutting through wood.

It shouldn’t have been cute. The sounds she was making were anything but, in actual fact. But it was Lacey and everything about the woman was fucking adorable.

She had fallen asleep about fifteen minutes after turning on the movie and now, with the credits rolling, she’d lulled into a deep enough sleep to let the snoring fly. Her head had slumped over on to his shoulder and he’d moved his arm around her, letting her head pillow on his chest as she slept.

He should leave. Lacey was a witness in an ongoing murder investigation. He never should have gotten this close to her and he certainly should never have gone home with her. But here he was now and it was a little late for regret.

Lacey’s breath hitched in her sleep and she rubbed her face against his bare chest before settling back down. Unconsciously his hand went to her hair, petting it back from her face before he caught was he was doing.

He was a fucking idiot and he was going to get the poor girl in trouble. That was the one certainty in his life, trouble followed him and it always took down the people he cared for. It’s why he didn’t have friends or lovers or family. He’d made his choice and it was too late to go back on it now.

He desperately needed to leave. But Lacey was basically on top of him and he didn’t want to wake her. She was also wearing his undershirt though he supposed she could keep it. Looked better on her anyway.

He heaved a sigh. He hadn’t been lying when he told Lacey he liked her. He liked her too much. Despite barely knowing her he’d felt some sort of personal responsibility for her safety. That was the reason he came to watch her dance every night, why he insisted on walking her to her car.

But that was only partly true. He also came to watch her dance because she was beautiful and sexy and he wanted her. He’d gone home every night to thoughts of her racing through his head until he took himself in hand, tugging one out to the memory of her gyrating hips on that dingy stage. He’d thought maybe, just maybe, if he gave himself this he’d finally shake her from his system. So why was he still sitting here, holding Lacey as she slept and finding it nearly impossible to drag himself away, despite the impression of an idling tour bus Lacey’s sinuses were doing.

He knew why. He was a sentimental old fool. Despite years of loneliness and bitter regret, he still had a hopeful heart. He still dreamed of the whole package, love and family and a white fucking picket fence, the life he might have had once upon a time if things hadn’t turned out so fucked. But Lacey didn’t want that and even if she did, she wouldn’t want it with him.

His phone buzzed in his back pocket and he lifted his rear end from the sofa as gently as possible, wedging his left hand back to pull it free.

He sighed again at the text from the station. A body found in an alleyway three blocks from Lacey’s club. His arm tightened around her involuntarily. Didn’t murderers ever take a night off?

At least now he had a valid reason for leaving other than his own shitty people skills. The banter was fine and good, the sex was easy enough, but what did you talk about after? That’s the part that always hung him up, why he found it easier to sneak off after one night rather than stick around to see if something would come from it. This was good. Lacey wasn’t looking for anything serious and neither was he. Maybe they could do this again sometime, a couple of lonely hearts meeting for a few stolen moments before they went about their separate lives. He could deal with that. If he didn’t get too close to her, she wouldn’t end up hurt. She wouldn’t end up like…

He shook his head. It did no good to think about that.

Carefully he scooted out from beneath Lacey, cradling her head until it met the sofa cushion beneath her. His t-shirt had ridden up on her, leaving her truly delectable bottom exposed. She would get cold laying there in nothing but his old v-neck so he glanced around, seeing a plaid throw blanket thrown over an armchair. He grabbed it and shook it out, revealing a pile of laundry beneath and he smiled. It must have been part of Lacey’s 35 seconds of clean up before he was allowed in the apartment. An item of clothing had fallen to the ground when he grabbed the blanket and he bent to pick it up, a pair of tiny pajama shorts with some sort of cartoon cat covering them. He dropped the shorts back on to the armchair with a shake of his head. She was so young, so sweet, and he was a disgusting old man who’d taken advantage.

He laid the throw blanket over Lacey, tucking it around her shoulders and she sighed, a small little smile crossing her lips. He couldn’t help himself, he bent over and pressed a kiss to her forehead, one last show of affection before he showed himself the door.

He shrugged his shirt back on, buttoning it up before grabbing his jacket and heading out into the freezing night air. It was sleeting lightly, ice clinging to his jacket as he walked. It was half past one on Christmas morning, and he was en route to a crime scene. What a shit life he led. 

The address wasn’t far from Lacey’s apartment, honestly she needed to find a place in a safer neighborhood, and it only took him a few minutes to get there. Rogers was already there and he shook his head. His eager young partner was well on his way to being as married to the job as he was. He appreciated his commitment to their work, but the other man was still young enough not to make all of Weaver’s mistakes. Too bad he’d never say anything to him about it. Best not to pry in his partner’s personal life.

“What do we have?” he asked, meeting Rogers at the mouth of the alley.

“A woman in her 20s, throat slit and body dumped elsewhere, just like the others. Doesn’t look like she was killed here.”

Weaver rubbed a hand against his eyes wearily.

“Dammit,” he muttered.

“It’s either our same guy or a skilled copycat,” Rogers said.

“No crime scene details have been released to the public,” Weaver said, squatting down next to the body. She was young, reddish brown hair limp around a face that had once been pretty but was now colored by the blue pallor of death. As he stared down at her, her face morphed in to one more familiar, one he’d just seen beneath him in the throes of passion. For a split second it was Lacey’s blank stare, a brutal slice of red across her throat. He blinked and the face was a stranger once more.

Lacey was in his head and he couldn’t shake her despite knowing barely anything about her. All he knew was that her name was Lacey French, she was 26 years old and she’d worked as a dancer at the Gold Club for the past three years. Now he also knew that she snored, had a penchant for cat pajamas and classic literature, and was a bloody life-changing fuck.

And he knew that if she ever ended up like the girl on the pavement before him, he’d lose the last shreds of humanity he’d managed to cling to over the past five decades of this shit life.

He drew the white sheet back over the victim, standing to face Rogers.

“Do we have an ID on her yet?”

Rogers shook his head. “We’ll go through the missing persons database, see if she’s a match for anyone. She didn’t have anything identifying on her, the poor girl was dumped in her underwear. Lab results might be a little slow on the holiday.”

Weaver nodded. “Always a shit time of year to get anything done quickly.”

Rogers raised an eyebrow at him. “Alright, Scrooge.”

Weaver narrowed his eyes at his partner.

“If you haven’t noticed, we’re at a crime scene with some poor girl who was murdered before she could have her Christmas pudding. She probably has a family, parents, a boyfriend, people who will always remember this day as the worst of their lives. So I’m sorry if I’m lacking in holiday  _spirit_.”

Rogers’ eyes turned dark. “I know,” he said. “I also know if I don’t try to have some semblance of a sense of humor I won’t survive this job.”

Weaver’s only response was a non-committal grunt. He wasn’t in a mood to entertain Rogers’ sense of humor. He’d made a colossal mistake with Lacey and yet he wished more than anything he was still in her tiny little apartment with her snoring against his chest. He wished he was cradled between her thighs, his cock buried deep in her as she writhed beneath him. He wanted her hot, wet mouth around his cock again. He wanted her, not the death and destruction that dogged him at every turn.

He took a deep breath of the icy air, the cold burning his lungs. He’d thought if he let himself have her she’d be out of his system. It seemed that exercise was a resounding failure.

The warmth of his memories contrasted sharply with the cold of the night and he reached to pull his scarf closer around his neck only to find it not there.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath. He’d left it at Lacey’s, balled up on her coffee table. There’d be no getting it back now.

The sleet had eased up, the little clink of ice hitting the windshields of cars and the frozen pavement dissipating. Instead large white flakes started to fall silently around them, the red and blue lights of the police cruiser on the street outside the alley reflecting off the snow as it fell.

“Snow,” Rogers said, glancing up at the dark sky. “Looks like we’ll have a white Christmas after all.”

“Bloody inconvenient,” Weaver grunted, turning back to his car. “I’ll go fill out the paperwork and call you if I get an ID on the victim. You go home, enjoy your Christmas.”

Rogers looked up at him in surprise. “You want me to take the day off after this?”

Weaver shrugged. “She’ll still be dead tomorrow.”

He had an ID on the victim by 8 in the morning. Eliza Dunn, age 22, had been reported missing two days ago. She worked as a cocktail waitress at a gentleman’s club in the Heights. Not the same one as Sage and Lacey, but still, too close for comfort. Their killer definitely had a type.

He leaned back in his office chair, pinching the bridge of his nose to stave off the headache he could feel forming there. He was exhausted. He hadn’t slept in 2 days, he’d been fucked within an inch of his life, and then gone straight to work. He reached for his coffee cup, noticing it was empty and slammed it back down on his desk resignedly.

The snow had tapered off about an hour ago leaving several inches of white fluff on the streets, freezing to the layer of ice that had formed from the sleet. It made the roads treacherous and on top of the holiday it was a recipe for the Heights looking like a ghost town outside his office window.

He was too tired to be of use to anyone. He needed a shower and a good long nap.

With that in mind he snatched up his jacket, zipping up the front for good measure, despite how inadequate it was for the weather. He wished he had his scarf.

Weaver jammed his hands into his pockets, deliberating for a moment.

He’d left Lacey asleep on the couch without a word. He wondered if she’d woken up yet and found him missing. He wondered if she was sad to find him gone or relieved to avoid an awkward morning after. Probably the latter.

He briefly flirted with the idea of going back to her place. But what would be the point? So he could fall asleep on her couch five minutes later? She probably had plans in any case, despite what she’d said the night before about being alone. If only it wasn’t Christmas day and something was open he’d bring her an apologetic cup of coffee or something.

He eyed the empty mug on his desk, coming to a decision.

He wanted his scarf back. It was at Lacey’s place. It was as good enough a reason as any to stop by. And if he just wanted to see her face again, to know she was alive and safe and not stripped to her underwear, a bloodied corpse in a godforsaken alleyway, well, she’d never need to know how fucked his brain really was.

Fifteen minutes later found him back outside Lacey’s front door gripping two Styrofoam cups of the station’s coffee. It was bitter and strong enough to chew, but it was something.

Lacey opened the door after his second knock, her eyes widening in surprise at the sight of him. She was still wearing his t-shirt though she’d thrown on a pair of pajama pants with it, more of that same cartoon cat.

The tightness he carried around in his chest eased ever so slightly at the sight of her. She looked sleepy, her eyes squinting out into the morning sunlight and her mass of curls mussed from sleep. The face of the dead girl swam before his eyes, superimposing over Lacey’s and he shook his head, shoving those thoughts away.

“Hey,” he said, holding out the coffee that she took from him instinctively.

Lacey raised an eyebrow.

“You expect me to think you went out for coffee on Christmas morning? I know you left in the middle of the night. I heard you go.”

 _Shit_. And he thought he’d been so careful too. She definitely thought he’d snuck out as soon as she fell asleep. And after he’d said he’d stay the night.

Lacey shook her head, her shoulders sagging slightly. “It’s fine. I didn’t really expect you to stay the whole night. I just woke up cold is all.”

Weaver gave her a half smile.

“I forgot my scarf,” he said, the line well rehearsed in his head.

Lacey was still looking at him skeptically but she stood aside letting him pass her in to the apartment.

“So what are you really doing here?” she asked as she followed him in to the living room, taking a sip of the coffee and pulling a face.

“God this is awful,” she grimaced.

Weaver gave her an apologetic look. “It’s from the station. That’s where I went. I got called in to work and I didn’t want to wake you.”

Lacey’s lips parted slightly in understanding and the next time she spoke she seemed to have shaken off a bit of her icy demeanor.

“Crime doesn’t take off holidays?” she asked, going to take another sip of the coffee before thinking better of it and plopping it down on coffee table next to his scarf.

“Unfortunately not,” he said. 

“So I suppose you’ll be back out to the mean streets of Hyperion Heights now, huh?” Lacey asked. She had her arms crossed against her chest. In the oversized t-shirt and pajama pants that were a little too long for her she looked even tinier than she really was. He’d only ever seen her in heels, he realized. With her feet bare she hardly reached his chin and he was fairly short for a man.

She was tiny and fierce and fragile and brazen and he couldn’t get enough of her presence. He wanted to bundle her up and keep her safe no matter how tough she was. He knew the things that went bump in the night more intimately than she did. He was far more frightened of them as a result.

“Actually I’m taking the day off,” he said after far too long a silence on his part. “No one should be alone on Christmas.”

Lacey’s eyes narrowed, her arms tightening across her chest and a frown forming on her luscious lips.

“I don’t need your pity,” Lacey spat.

Weaver snorted a laugh, shaking his head slightly.

“I was talking about me,” he said, giving her his best self-deprecating smile.

“Oh,” Lacey said with a nod. “Well in that case.”

Weaver dropped his scarf back down on the coffee table before peeling his jacket off and tossing it on to the arm of the sofa.

“I hate to impose but I really could use a shower,” he said with a smirk. “For some reason I seem to reek of sex.”

Lacey’s lips twisted into a smile.

“Maybe I could help you with that.”

Weaver lifted an eyebrow. “Which part?”

She stepped toward him, placing one small hand against his chest as she reached up on her tiptoes to whisper in his ear.

“Both.”


End file.
